pass the night

                    so hey— just a heads up that tomorrow morning i’ll be hopping on a plane with my band to go play a few concerts in beautiful wonderful still-getting-snow-in-may newfoundland! might pop by here in passing or at night a few times, but i’ll mostly just be gone until monday. you can probably still catch me on discord ( or on snapchat, if anyone wants to add me & get some live pictures of like, icebergs and shit ). hope you all have a lovely weekend. ♥

I’m just trying, you know? Day by day, second by second, I’m trying to keep myself together.
—  🖤
prince in training

~3k, rated T

Sterek ficlet inspired by this: “i grew up not knowing i was royal and now i guess i’m heir to a throne and you’re the guy who’s supposed to be teaching me how to be royal bc i suck at it and oops we made out” au

This is kind of Princess-Diaries-ish. I know that’s been done before in this fandom (and thank god it has—it’s awesome), but I couldn’t help myself. Yay for self-indulgence!

*

Stiles thought the most annoying thing about suddenly being a royal heir to a small eastern European kingdom he’s never heard of would be the hyper-aggressive paparazzi, but he was dead wrong.

The most annoying thing is actually Derek Hale, the guy Stiles’ grandmother hired to teach Stiles how not to screw this up.

“Princes don’t chew with their mouths open, Stiles.”

“Princes don’t shove an entire fistful of curly fries in their mouths, Stiles.”

“Princes don’t wear pink-and-green plaid shirts from Target, Stiles.”

“Princes don’t slouch.”

They don’t slump, either, or yawn or sneeze or cough in public, or fist-pump, or drive beat-up old blue Jeeps, or wear bright colors, or rock out to the radio, or do anything fun.

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Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?
Hwær cwom maþþumgyfa?
Hwær cwom symbla gesetu?
Hwær sindon seledreamas?
Eala beorht bune!
Eala byrnwiga!
Eala þeodnes þrym!
Hu seo þrag gewat,
genap under nihthelm,
swa heo no wære.
—  “Where is the horse? Where the rider?
Where the giver of treasure?
Where the seats of the feast?
Where are the joys of the hall?
Alas for the bright cup!
Alas for the heroic warrior!
Alas for the splendor of the king!
How they have passed away,
Dark under night-cover,
As if they never were.”
- The Wanderer, An Anglo-Saxon poem of lamentation, which was the inspiration for Tolkien’s Lament of the Rohirrim.
There are suddenly all of these reasons for why you don’t have time to talk to me. And yet, I still remember when talking to me was all you could do.
—  🖤
Lazy

Summary: Pure porn without plot. You wake up and spend a morning with Sam and Dean.

Warnings: Smut, threesome (no Wincest), anal sex

Word Count: 2650ish

A/N: Hope y’all enjoy! XOXO

Too hot. Too bright. Everything feels heavy and suffocating, like you’re trapped or tied down. Leg muscles twitch, but you can’t move them as you force your brain to swim toward the surface, try to break your mind out of its haze.

And then you wake up.

For just a moment, you focus only on your breath. You wake up like this two or three times a week, have ever since you started hunting, and it will only take your body a few seconds to calm down.

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